


Pup

by libraryv



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Drinking, Gen, Origin Story, Sword Fighting, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: D'Artagnan is determined to honour the promise he made his father, and to become a Musketeer. My interpretation of how he came to a part of the legendary foursome, blending (mostly) the BBC show and (some of) the spirit of the books.
Comments: 62
Kudos: 45





	1. Paris, Day 10

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. We don't need another d'Art origin story, do we? :D Or, DO we? 😁
> 
> I started writing this last winter when I began to read through Dumas' books, and realized that d'Art is so much more than an over-eager puppy. (Although he IS that, and I love it!) It's just that in canon, he's very clever and resourceful, and I think that he gets underestimated/stereotyped. 
> 
> So that's my premise, to blend all these things about him, and put them into play into his origin story. I'm trying out first-person narrative for this, which I don't normally like, but it's a fun challenge for me, and I'm all about that. :D
> 
> So here we go!

**La cour de la garnison | November 14**  
_Ten days in Paris_

Tremaine and I circle each other in the early morning darkness, the sparkling frost making the dirt beneath our feet both stiff and slippery. The newest recruits have the earliest training time, so the men gathered around make a youthful patchwork of slouching frames and glazed eyes. They are sleepiness defined.

Not me. 

I’m not an early riser; in fact, quite the opposite. But I _am_ a determined personality, and if I have my mind set on something, I’ll do anything I can to make it happen. 

Right now, I have my mind set on becoming a Musketeer. 

The regiment that I am honour-bound to become a part of. That I so desperately want to join that it's all I can think, breathe, or dream of.

So if Capitaine de Tréville requires us to be alert and fighting in the freezing courtyard before dawn, _mordioux_! I will be the first man there. 

Tremaine and I study each other, but I already know which move he is going to use. His footwork indicates an inside attack on the right, but his left hand is betraying him; the fingers are flexed in preparation for the last-minute balance adjustment required for a feint. Not to mention his barely controlled expression of glee. 

He is overthinking this, he is trying to plan everything out, and I can see every step written across his face before it happens. 

I’m bored of this fight and it hasn’t even _started_. 

Tremaine jumps forward, and he is quick, it’s true; but I am much faster. Sure enough, he attempts the feint I predicted, and I’ve blocked it so quickly that his blade is knocked from his hand, the dull metal glinting in the dirt. 

Tremaine blinks. I shrug, then, since he seems incapable of moving, pick up his sword and offer it back to him. 

“Care to try again?”

His surprised mouth turns downward.

“You are too smug, _puppy_.”

My brows draw together.

“Pardon?”

He gives a satisfied scoff. 

“You know that’s what they call you.” He tosses his chin in the direction of the courtyard, at all the other pairs of recruits surrounding us. 

“We all see you, following Treville’s favourites around, hanging on their every word.”

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; the legendary trio. _C’est vrait_ : I follow them around the garrison. I know I must seem like an over-eager, country-minded simpleton to them, but they are generous with me.

Tremaine’s unkind laughter breaks into my thoughts. 

“At dinner last night, the captain took time to speak about each new recruit. After your name came up, Porthos shouted, “ah, the puppy!” The whole garrison heard."

My cheeks heat. It is common practice for the entire regiment to share dinner once a week. I was not there yesterday; Treville had excused me to visit the estate lawyer in regards to my father’s death. 

_The puppy._

Shame curls along my spine. 

Those three men saved me, in the many ways a man _can_ be saved, in those crucial first days in the city. I like to think that I played an equal part in the adventure. 

I am fairly skilled at reading people, and I thought that Athos, Porthos and Aramis, exalted heroes that they are, welcomed my enthusiasm. 

Clearly, I was wrong. 

Tremaine chuckles, the sound setting my teeth on edge, and he lunges, expecting to catch me by surprise, but I merely bring my sword up in casual reaction. He couldn’t be more obvious. 

His shocked face turns to grim concentration as I advance, letting my embarrassment fuel me. Puppy or not, I can show Treville what I am capable of, at least. Tremaine is backing up so quickly it is almost a joke. 

“I’ve never seen you accomplish such rapid footwork, Tremaine. Pity it’s because you’re on the retreat.”

He gives an angry huff. He would be good with a sword if he only allowed for some originality. 

“Change direction,” I advise sincerely, as our swords flash. “Or slow down. Come on, Tremaine, surprise me, and take the damn advantage.”

He shakes his head and laughs, out of breath as I pursue him towards the stables, giving him the opportunity to do just that. He doesn’t, though, following footsteps as if his feet are bound by the rulebook itself, and I’m not patient enough for this to go on any longer. 

I stop parrying, slow down, move to the side and attack. As anticipated, he attempts to match my sudden change of direction, flings his blade wildly, and loses his balance along with his sword, landing on his bottom on dirt and hay.

I extend a hand to help him up, but he pushes it angrily away, glaring up at me.

“You think you are so special.”

“That is not what I think, at all.” My temper flares when he rolls his eyes, so I keep looking right at him as I say,

“I _do_ think you’re an idiot.”

He shoots to his feet. I can tell he’s about to lunge at me again, and exactly where he's going to aim his first punch (this man won’t last a second in a fight if he doesn’t learn some style) when Treville claps his hands and gives a shout for attention. 

“You have a treat, this morning!” he calls from his position on the balcony. Beside him stands Athos, tall and stately and inscrutable beneath his ubiquitous hat. I've barely seen him since that fateful day in the courtyard, when he faced the firing squad. Aramis and Porthos took me out in celebration that evening, and Athos was a few tables away, with us but distant, drowning himself in wine.

Treville's voice rings out in the morning air.

“Most of you know Lieutenant Athos’ brutal skill with the blade. He will duel amongst some of you this morning, to test your ability.”

Scattered murmuring starts up. We’re all a bit in awe of having one of the Captain’s favourites at practice. Treville’s eyes roam over us, sharp and assessing, before they land on me. 

“And he has requested to start with d’Artagnan.”


	2. Paris, Day 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and d'Artagnan face off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who have read and loved! This is a fun experiment for me, and your kind words have been so encouraging.

At Treville’s words, Athos immediately begins descending the steps to the courtyard. The recruits break apart, creating a path for him.

As he approaches the spot where Tremaine and I stand, he nods at Tremaine, who, a bit awestruck, bows and moves aside. 

I don’t think I’ve ever heard the garrison this quiet: all eyes are on us. The pre-dawn black has given way to a grey chill, but I can barely feel it. My heart begins a wild, thundering gallop. Athos lifts his head, and we begin to circle each other, taking each other’s measure. 

I have maybe an inch or two on his height, but as we pace, I am struck again by the fact that there is something undeniably regal about his stance; something aristocratic in his bearing that I will never have. He is a soldier to the bone, though: the coveted fleur-de-lis on his pauldron is nearly obliterated by dents and marks. 

I scan his face, which is carefully neutral, blue eyes giving nothing away, then glance down his body, from his fingertips to his boots, searching for tells. There aren’t any. 

Here is why I love the sword: a man fights in accordance with who he is. If you can read the man, that’s already half the battle won.

Yet, Athos is a mystery.

Rumour around the garrison is that he is extremely talented but temperamental; an effective fighter that often ends his day at the bottom of a wine glass. He keeps to himself; he seems to tolerate no one’s company other than Aramis and Porthos’. All of the men admit he is a legend, but most of them are also quick to call him a drunk. 

I don’t agree. There is more to Athos than that. He doesn’t use drinking to escape, he uses it to numb. He seems...haunted. 

Athos slides his sword from his scabbard, and I’m reminded that whatever the enigma surrounding him is, his skill is unparalleled. I’m about to face off against the most celebrated swordsman in Paris. Maybe all of France. 

Our blades have crossed exactly once before, and even though I was half-mad with grief at the time, I remember it well enough to know he more than deserves the reputation.

Somewhere to my left, my friend Tomas’ voice breaks the silence.

“A chance to show your skill, d’Artagnan!”

Some encouraging cheers follow. It steadies me a bit, and I smile. I get along well with most of the regiment, but then Tremaine’s loud rejoinder serves as a reminder that _most_ is not everyone. 

“Yes, show the nice master what you’re made of, young puppy!”

There is a small ripple of laughter from his cronies at this, and the corners of Athos’ mouth turn slightly down. I flick my eyes to the crowd, seeking Tremaine’s face so I can glare at him, but I hear Athos’ soft command. 

“Focus.”

He speaks quietly, but the word is so firm that it pulls me back to the moment, to the fight about to happen. I give him a small nod, take a deep breath, and-

 _Mordioux!_ He is so fast!

Again and again, and _again_ my blade is merely crossing against his in a vain attempt to master control, each strike reverberating in my spine. Within seconds, my wrists feel numb, and my arms are burning with the muscle required to keep his attack at bay. 

It’s not only his speed, and it’s not only his technique, which I barely have time to appreciate. It’s the fact that he uses both at once, in ways that I can’t track, and all I know is that he has gained the upper hand and I’ve barely stopped myself from getting stabbed.

Athos switches again, slowing his pace, and I almost trip, my momentum carrying me a step too far. I’m forced to block with a clumsy arc of my own, and _honte à moi_ , I should have seen that coming! 

He is frowning, and I almost feel as if I’m disappointing him. 

We’re covering a lot of ground, and he’s allowing it, but with the next strike, he catches my eye and says,

“You are merely reacting.”

I let out a chuckle on a gasp of air.

“You are too fast.”

“An excuse.”

He turns, and I turn with him, parrying, frustrated with myself. But as he comes toward me I realize he’s right: I am doing nothing but match him, and each time, I give him too much space. 

He turns again, and this time I close the distance, not by meeting his attack, but by stepping behind him and throwing my blade around his side, the tang of the metal sliding.

He’s forced to whirl around, and while he is much quicker than I would be to recover from a play like that, I can tell I’ve startled him. 

I press my advantage, and because I know he’s expecting me to do something else a little wild, I do the opposite, follow basic protocol, and simply execute my favourite remise.

I made the right call, and he is forced to push back with an elegant riposte.

“Better,” he says. Our speed has slowed. He is still controlling the direction of the fight, but I am learning his style and adapting to it.

“They say that you can tell a lot about a man, based on how he fights with a sword,” states Athos, as I mirror his footwork.

It is such a complete echo of my own, earlier thoughts, that I laugh. 

“That fits. You’re all elegance and mystery. I could swear I’m duelling with a dangerous comte.”

His eyes widen slightly at this, then he narrows them, amused.

“You are all passion and surprise,” he counters, stepping and locking my sword against his. He tilts his head slightly. “And perception,” he adds wryly.

The fight is turning into something else; I’m not just blocking, and he is not just attacking. We are both forcing each other into a faster and faster dance. I’m unable to predict my own next move, let alone his.

I’m caught up in a storm of exhilaration: my breath is coming in stolen gasps, my sweaty hair is whipping into my face and stinging my eyes, my body feels like it’s moving of its own accord, and each time I think a step or turn will end it, Athos elevates the whole thing and we seem to gain another level. There is a pounding certainty in my blood that is beating along with my heart: _this is what I was born for_. 

I do something I know will cost me: I stop and close my eyes. 

Just for a second. 

I send everything that I’m feeling in this moment, _right now_ , to my father, and with the next beat of my heart, the tip of Athos’ rapier has found the cloth of my collar, an inch below my throat. I hear the burst of cheering from the courtyard, the exclamations of approval, and Tomas' raised voice saying over and over, 

“You almost had him! You almost had him!”

I open my eyes, reeling from emotion. Treville is headed down the stairs, clapping his hands and nodding, already trying to point out, above the noise, the tactics of the fight.

Athos lowers his sword, but he is studying me. We are both breathing hard, and though he is just as sweaty as I am, he still somehow manages to look like an unruffled gentleman.

I grin, and hold out my hand. 

“Thank you, Athos.”

His grip is light but strong. 

“You are thanking me for besting you.”

“I’m thanking you for the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in Paris. There is nothing better than a good challenge, especially by sword.” 

He hesitates, then smiles. It’s barely more than the corners of his mouth lifting upward, but it’s genuine, and I swear, despite how different we are, no two people in all of France understand each other better than Athos and I do, in that moment. He further astonishes me by saying,

“You are more talented than you know, d’Artagnan.”

He follows it with a nod, and I’m a bit taken aback by how validated I feel. 

Then the Captain is there, clapping us both on the shoulder.

“Tres bien!” Treville is beaming knowingly. “Your styles complement each other well indeed!”

Treville shakes my shoulder encouragingly, then he and Athos turn back to the crowd of recruits, no doubt for Athos to choose his next opponent, and my friends surround me, full of eager cheer and questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note re: _Mordioux!_ D'Art curses a fair amount in the books (not a TON, but he's a spirited fellow, and often in the thick of things!) and this is his fave. 😁
> 
> Next up: d'Art and Aramis.


	3. Paris, Day 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan has the chance to help Aramis out.

**Les Halles, le marche | November 19**  
_Fifteen days in Paris_

It is cold, but bright sunshine is simply everywhere, and it matches my high spirits. It beams down onto the bustling marketplace; glancing off belt buckles, gleaming on hat feathers and imbuing everyone’s face with a soft afternoon glow. Hundreds of bodies stream around me as I make my way leisurely along.

I finished another practice duel with Athos, earlier, and my muscles are grateful for the stretch to be found in a walk. Ever since that first fight a few mornings ago, we cross blades daily. 

It was never officially arranged or agreed upon, he simply finds me at some point during the day’s routine, when we both seem to have the time. He draws his sword, his face part invitation, part question, and my response is always a ready smile and a nod. The other men have grown used to us suddenly breaking into a practice skirmish; sometimes we have a small, eager audience, sometimes it is just us and our swords.

I am learning. He is a master, and barely a week into fighting with him has sharpened my own timing to an astonishing degree. I am becoming better at watching and waiting, although it tests my patience; the details that I catch when I’m not busy running my mouth astound me. 

There is still a line drawn between us, though. We barely speak beyond Athos’ terse instructions and my jaunty replies, and there are mornings where Athos reeks of spirits, his eyes red-rimmed and expression distant. Those are the times when I try harder, and joke more loudly, when I’m desperate to pull one of those reluctant smiles to his face and lift him out of himself. I’ve been succeeding more and more. I think he enjoys our sparring more than he admits.

I’m ruminating on our mysterious friendship, enjoying the sights and sounds of the busy market, when a fruit stall catches my eye. A man stands behind a veritable mound of shining red apples. 

I recall the dinner conversation at the Bonacieux household the other night: Constance’s beautiful eyes alight as she spoke of the season for making spiced apple cider, only to be dimmed by her husband’s crushing comment about unnecessary expenses. 

Well! _C’est dommage_ , Bonacieux: if Constance wants to taste spiced apple cider, she shall have the opportunity to. I turn towards the stall.

This is _not_ a good idea. Monsieur Bonacieux is already suspicious of me, and I’m not exactly in the habit of buying gifts for other men’s wives. Not to mention spending money I don’t really have.

But I picture Constance’s face lighting up with surprised joy, and that decides me. I'll deal with Bonacieux later. I head over to the stall, and I’m inspecting the pile of rosy apples when I hear raised voices to my left.

“You may be oh-so-charming, Musketeer, but you are a liar!”

“I’m guilty of the first, monsieur, but not the second, I assure you.”

I know that smooth voice. I look over, and sure enough, it belongs to Aramis. 

Aramis, another of Treville’s favourites. Friend of Athos and Porthos, and who, according to garrison legend, never misses his shot, whether it's with a gun or the women of Paris. I don’t doubt it; over the past two weeks I’ve seen him in action in both areas.

Currently, he is at another fruit stall boasting stacks of golden pears, behind which stands a couple; a nervous looking woman with a pleading hand on the man’s arm. Aramis’ stance is pure nonchalance; he is leaning slightly back on his boot heels, a bemused smile resting casually across his handsome features.

In comparison, the woman looks panicked.

“Remy, Monsieur d’Herblay is right, let’s-”

“Oh, it’s Monsieur d’Herblay now, is it? It was “dearest Aramis” in your sleep last night! You’re making a fool out of me with this man, Bette!”

Ah. Not good.

Aramis realizes this as well, because he straightens, and his expression turns effortlessly to placating. 

“Let’s not get carried away by such claims. I wasn’t with your wife last night, and as for the rest, they are merely dreams, are they not?” Aramis’ tone is so light and friendly that even _I_ feel reassured. 

The husband, however, turns a dangerous shade of scarlet. He stabs a finger into the air near Aramis’ chest, who doesn’t flinch, but his hand does travel to the pommel of his sword. 

“She told me she was visiting her friend’s last night. It turned to rain, so I went to fetch her at Mademoiselle Autin’s and what do I find? That Bette was never there! She lied! She wasn’t home until midnight!”

This is none of my business. 

...but whatever the woman’s story is, Aramis is telling the truth. A few of the men and the recruits had set up target practice at the garrison after dinner, and were betting for fun. I was there from start to finish, long past midnight, and so was Aramis. 

The husband reaches into his doublet and withdraws a dagger. He is shaking with anger, and he calls out to the man at the table beside his,

“Andre! I have found the man who is making a mess of my marriage!” 

I follow Remy’s gaze. I happen to know this Andre; he is a friendly dairy farmer from Lupiac, and I often cross paths with him in the Rue du Bacc. 

Friendly as he is, he is also inconveniently large, and he is rising from his table and stalking over, his own knife in hand. 

_Mordioux._ This is not ideal. Aramis takes a single step back. 

Abandoning the apples, I’m at the stall in a few strides. I make a show of outright surprise, stopping right at Aramis’ side.

“Salut, my friend! Did you sleep well, after the competition last night went so late? Past midnight, wasn’t it? That shot you made, I am still thinking about it!”

I’m not exaggerating; he fired his gun from clear across the courtyard, striking the centre of the target as if it were nothing more challenging than stomping his foot. 

Aramis doesn’t miss a beat. He flings an arm around my shoulder, embracing me and grinning. 

“D’Artagnan! How good to see you. It _was_ a late night at the garrison, wasn’t it?” He employs the force of his handsome smile on our audience, who have frozen in comical surprise at my entrance.

Andre, confused, gives me a nod. 

“Remy,” he says to his friend in his deep voice. “I know young d’Artagnan, here. If he says that they were together last night, I believe them. He is telling the truth.”

“But-but-” Remy splutters, and I feel sorry for him.

“Good day, messieurs,” I say, tugging on Aramis’ sleeve, wanting to make the most of this chance and leave without a scuffle. Or worse.

Aramis certainly doesn’t need telling; he bows with a cheeky smile, and we turn and walk briskly through the thronging marketplace. We round a few corners, letting the crowd swallow us, then stop and face each other. 

Aramis shakes his head, then lets out a low chuckle before bending forward, resting his palms on his thighs. He looks up at me, dark eyes sparkling. 

“You have good timing.”

“Or bad, according to Remy.”

He laughs. 

“I wonder where his wife really was?” I ask, curious. Aramis meets my eyes and winks.

“No idea. I called on her yesterday afternoon, and she told me she was staying in with her husband that evening. It looks like Remy is not the only one taken in by his wife’s stories.”

I raise my eyebrows, not knowing how to reply, but he strokes his moustache and says, 

“Ah, well. There are other women, no?”

He gives an elegant shrug, and for all his carefree style, there is a certain bitterness in the gesture. The strange thought occurs to me that perhaps Aramis is not merely chasing women, he is chasing actual love.

Then he smiles, shifting moods easily, and I shake off my musings. He is back to what I am used to seeing; untroubled playfulness and charm. 

“Either way, d’Artagnan, you are a useful fellow to have in a tricky situation. You didn’t have to risk that man’s anger, but I am very glad you did.” He takes off a hat and nods at me, his hand tousling through his hair. 

“That earnest country sincerity must go far with people.”

I bow, in good fun.

“Always happy to help.”

I hold out my hand, and he shakes it, both of us grinning at each other.

“I can believe it. And now, I owe you a favour. Let me treat you to something from the market.” 

I hesitate, but gentlemanly conduct dictates that it would be rude to say no. 

“I do rather like pears,” I tease, and he groans before we both burst into laughter. Then he claps me on the shoulder, and we turn back to the market, chatting in the sunshine.


	4. Paris, Day 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Porthos' turn. :)

**Le Sphinx Rouge, Boulevard Saint-Germain**

_Three weeks in Paris_

I’m sitting in a shadowy corner of Le Sphinx Rouge, drinking deeply from a glass of Armagnac, the night my life changes. I’d been mulling over the past week and indulging in the most dangerous mood of all: self-pity.

I’m not usually prone to it. I don’t like its heavy, stupefying quality; my father used to say that it engulfs one like fog: if you’re not careful, you become lost in it. He was right, as he was about most things. Give me a brisk walk or a good hard ride for a country mile or two, any day.

Tonight, though, I have permitted myself this wallowing; today marks three weeks since my father's death.

I take another deep pull from my drink, and my mind spins back to a moment that I can't stop reliving. It's a torturous kind of comfort, to picture that grey afternoon on the road to Paris, and with it, my father's last moments. I close my eyes, and I can feel his hands, still strong, gripping my shirt as the rain drilled into the earth beside us. I can hear the vow that I made.

The emptiness in my stomach rises up and becomes an ache that I can’t seem to swallow around. I expected grief to be quiet, and cold, but it’s not, is it? It’s relentless, and it’s angry.

I can feel my throat working, and I put my elbows on the table, burying my head in my hands and gripping my hair. I would give my last sous, hell, I would give the very skin off my back right now, to feel anything other than this pain. 

I hear deep laughter from the group assembled by the bar. I know that laugh. It’s almost as famous as the man it belongs to; Porthos.

Porthos' laughter is still tumbling and rippling through the crowd. I look up, knowing that if the titan is here, then the other two that make up Treville's favourite trio are bound to be as well. 

Sure enough, a quick scan of the crowd reveals a glimpse of Aramis' dark hair. He is leaning casually back on his elbows against the worn wood of the bar, a nonchalant smile barely visible beneath his fashionably trimmed mustache. 

Beside him stands Athos, his almost preternatural stillness lending him the ability to blend into the surroundings, as usual. His hat is pulled low, so I can't make out his expression. If I were to guess, though, it would be carefully arranged into neutral passivity. 

The affair between Porthos and the other man has grown louder, and the exchange is getting aggressive. I watch the brim of Athos' hat turn towards Aramis, who raises his eyebrows in return, and uncurls himself from the bar, straightening. 

I've seen this before, with these three men; their uncanny ability to communicate without using a word. Often, they barely even have to look at each other. They are always together: in training, during meals, everywhere around the garrison. The other men call them _Les Inseparables_. They share a bond that goes deeper than friendship. 

Brothers.

_Family._

Something catches in my chest, and I'm caught off-guard by longing so deep I can feel it in down to my bones. 

I hear the mocking tone of his voice before I see his hand slam onto the table in front of me. 

“Drowning your sorrows, d’Artagnan? All alone, are you?” 

I look up. I didn’t want company tonight, and I certainly didn’t want to see Tremaine. He has an insufferable look on his face. My temper, always at the ready, buzzes eagerly forward. 

“I’d like to keep it that way, please,” I say, through gritted teeth.

Tremaine _tsks._

“That’s not an answer in the spirit of the musketeers. We are fellow recruits; you should share your bottle, I am in need of a drink.”

“That’s not all you need,” I mumble, as he crosses his arms, smiling smugly.

“What’s that, pup? I didn’t hear you.”

I shake my head, trying to remember what Athos has told me about cooling my temper, but there is a roaring in my ears.

He laughs, and the sound breaks something in me. I shoot to my feet, and take satisfaction in the fact that I’m taller than him. I lean in. 

Tremaine takes a step back, but then he looks over my shoulder and smirks. His eyes flick back to mine.

“Still hanging around the great ones, pup, waiting for them to notice you.” He furrows his brow in mock sorrow. “Like a lonely, pathetic country dog, begging for scraps.”

I punch him. 

I don’t even think about it; it’s as if my fist is connected to my own painful thoughts, without my body having any say in the matter, and before I know it, I can feel my knuckles sinking into his nose. He screams, his head rocking back, and I’m a little stunned. I drop my hand; it’s absolutely throbbing, but I register the pain as if I’m underwater. 

I may be a little drunk. _Juste un peu._

Absurdly, I can hear myself saying, “I’m sorry!” I step forward, to help him, to see if he can take his hand away, and he rears back and hits me.

He’s caught the side of my face, and as I trip backwards, cursing, I catch sight of another recruit and one of Tremaine’s followers: Jules. He’s the biggest of all of us, and he’s storming towards me. I know what’s coming, I know I should move, or run, or say something, but there’s also a part of me that defiantly stands my ground. 

I try and deflect Jules’ blow, and I do the first few times. I’m faster than he is, after all, and he’s not light on his feet. I spin into Tremaine, though, and I catch a quick glance of his bleeding nose before he turns me around and shoves me right into Jules’ waiting fists. 

The first hit catches me in the stomach, stealing my breath, and I try to yell with pain, but what comes out is a horrible wheeze. My body bends, but Jules yanks me upright, twisting my arms behind my back, and I’m treated to another fist to the face from Tremaine.

His punch slams into my mouth, and I can taste iron as I spit blood onto the floor, looking up at them.

“Nice to see you’re working together,” I slur at him, struggling against Jules’ hold on my arms. “Treville’d be proud of your teamwork.”

I’m so dizzy that I feel like collapsing to the ground, but I throw my head back and catch Jules’ chin. He drops my arms, and I’m blinking away spots in my vision when I feel a huge hand land on my shoulder.

“What do we ‘ave here?”

Even though Porthos’ low voice holds its usual warmth, as he looks between the three of us, a frown is hovering at his mouth.

“Now,” he says, and his large hand squeezes my shoulder. The gesture is bracing; it sends warmth down my spine and keeps me standing upright.

“I’m ‘ardly an expert,” he continues easily, as if we’re all good friends discussing the weather,

“but I’d say this looks like a fight between fellow recruits.” 

Tremaine and Jules look at each other. 

Porthos is a senior, established Musketeer, but he’s also a legend. He’s like a solid wall of strength, and we’ve all seen that giant power unleashed in practice. I can only imagine how he is when he’s actually in a fight. 

Not only that, but he is universally beloved. Always ready with a smile and a word of encouragement, always game for a challenge, always a steadying presence. To go against Porthos is to go against the spirit of the regiment.

“We’re just practicing,” says Jules, and Tremaine nods along eagerly, _like a puppy_ , I can’t help thinking.

“In that case,” Porthos says, smiling, taking in my bleeding mouth and Tremaine’s red nose, “I’ll join you.” He nods to me. “The odds are lookin’ a bit uneven, so I’ll be on d’Artagnan’s team.”

If the corners of my mouth weren’t on fire, I’d burst out laughing at the terrified, identical look on Jules and Tremaine’s faces.

“Er-” manages Tremaine.

“No?” Porthos pushes me gently back into my chair, and he sits at the other side of the table, leaning back comfortably and looking at them. He’s making it clear he isn’t going anywhere. His expression is positively merry, but his eyes are looking at them sharply. 

“Next time, pup,” says Tremaine, hissing at me, but his voice has lost its bite. I roll my eyes, and they leave, shooting glances back over their shoulders at Porthos.

I look at him, and he’s frowning slightly.

“Wait ‘ere.”

He stands, and returns a few minutes later with a carafe of water and cold wet cloth, which I press gratefully to my burning mouth, then temple. He doesn’t say anything, which I appreciate, but on the other hand, the silence at the table isn’t the comfortable kind that I can share with Athos. 

It’s charged with the fight I’ve clearly been in, and I feel a need to say something. I should thank him. 

“I don’t need a protector,” is what I end up mumbling while looking down at the table, and it sounds petulant and childish. I cringe. “I meant-”

“I know you don’ need one,” Porthos says, and I can feel his gaze on me. “In fact, you were doin’ pretty well, considerin’ they teamed up on you.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, and I look up to see that he’s smiling at me. 

He tilts his head. 

“They called you ‘pup.’”

I sigh. 

“Tremaine's favourite name for me.”

Porthos nods, brows drawing together. 

“I call you that. Me n’ Athos, and Aramis, too.”

This surprises me, and it must show on my face, because Porthos reads it correctly, and chuckles. 

“Yeah, we talk about you. You made an ‘ell of an impression on Athos.” He leans forward, and pours himself some Armagnac. 

“An’ nobody makes an impression on ‘im.”

He takes a sip of Armagnac, rumbles a sound of pleasure, and pours himself some more.

“Actually, you made an impression on all three of us. As for “Pup,” it fits.”  
He gives me an affectionate smile that shoots through my loneliness like the sun breaking through clouds. “You’re eager, an’ friendly, and younger than us.”

I nod, a little overwhelmed.

Porthos hails a barmaid, requests some cheese and bread, and then nods, satisfied, as she hurries away. 

He studies me.

“But none of those things’re bad. Nothin’ wrong with wantin’ to work hard to be a part of the regiment.”

I nod again, wondering if he knows how deep my need for belonging goes. How, on nights like this, it’s not just wanting to be a part of the regiment, it’s wanting to be part of a family.

"I’m thinkin’ Tremaine heard us, one way or ‘nother, an’ has picked up on callin’ you that.”

I glower at the memory. 

“Tremaine’s a git.”

Porthos leans forward, and forces my eyes to his.

“He’s your brother in arms, a fellow future Musketeer, an’ believe me, he’ll probably save your life one day.”

I’m taken aback, and Porthos keeps going. 

“An’ you’ll no doubt save his. An’ it’s the same down t’every man in the regiment. We’ll all save each other, so many times over, with so many close calls you’ll lose count before you even start.”

He sits back, and he grins. 

“But he’s also a git.”

I grin back, and wince. I’m feeling better, and the barmaid returns with our food and a smile for Porthos, who winks at her, causing her to blush.

Porthos bites happily into a piece of bread.

“Don’ let him get to you, d’Artagnan. You’re twice the Musketeer he’ll ever be on your worst day, an’ I think you’ll only get better.”

I open my mouth, surprised, then close it. I don’t know what to say. For the second time. 

Porthos laughs. 

“Well that’s a bet I shoulda taken.”

I recover the power of speech. 

“What is?”

“That I can make you stop talking, for once.”

This time, despite my mouth, I do burst out laughing.


	5. Paris, Day 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Pup learns to love his nickname.

Porthos stays to finish the food, and the night takes a merrier turn. My grief is still there, waiting at the edges of the evening, but Porthos’ warmth is keeping it at bay, for now. 

Then he stands, claps me on the shoulder, and heads back into the crowded tavern. I toast the remainder of my drink to my father, and to Gascony. 

It’s getting late. The throngs of revelers have thinned, and the noisy throb of screeches and laughter has dimmed to low murmurs and muted conversations. 

I sigh, and gently prod at the side of my face. Despite Porthos’ cold cloth, long gone warm and dry, I can feel how puffy and tender the skin around my eye is. It’s already swelling, and when I look at the side of the pewter jug on the table and study my warped reflection, I can see purple already starting to bloom. 

I call to settle my tab, and am informed Porthos already took care of it. I’ll have to find a way to repay his kindness. I leave the tavern, heading left for my rented rooms Rue des Fossoyeurs. I wonder, briefly, if Constance would still be awake and sitting at the kitchen table, as is sometimes her habit. 

_Mais non._ She’d fuss over me, and even though the selfish part of me craves the touch of her gentle fingers, the concern in her eyes quenching the thirst of my loneliness, I won't be the reason for needlessly worrying her. 

I slow my pace, enjoying the feel of the cool air on my face. I decide to turn my walk home into an exploration, and get purposefully lost a bit. There is no better way to get to know a city. I turn down a random street, then another, and I’m walking along a hushed, garden-lined avenue when I hear, of all things, Aramis’ voice, ringing confidently out into the darkness.

“If you think we are going to let the Cardinal’s Red Guards intimidate us, then you don’t know us at all.”

Some quieter, incomprehensible mumbling, and then Porthos’ guffaw.

“That sounds like a challenge to duel, if I didn’ know better.”

And then I hear it; the best sound in the world.

That shimmering, silver note; at once dangerous and incandescent: the unmistakable sound of swords being drawn. 

I round the corner. Aramis, Porthos and Athos are facing off against five Red Guards; every last man has their sword crossed in front of them.

“This is business between Red Guards and the Musketeers,” sneers one of Guards, sparing a glance at me.

All eyes are on me. Athos, Porthos and Aramis aren’t saying anything, but they’re not laughing at me, either. 

Duelling goes against the King’s law. I am not expected to join this fight. I could turn around and walk away. 

But that is not who I am.

I take a deep breath, and step defiantly forward; the action that changes the trajectory of my life.

“Then it is my business.” I walk forward, drawing my own sword.

“You’re one of Treville’s hopefuls,” he returns. “And you won’t keep your mouth shut; half of Paris will know of this duel by morning.” 

I ignore this and turn to Athos, who is closest to me. 

“You are three against five. I can make it four.”

Athos’ eyes appraise me coolly before he gives me a nod, then looks to Porthos and Aramis.

“He can keep a secret,” Aramis says, considering, and then winks at me. 

“He’s good in a fight, an’ loyal,” points out Porthos. 

Athos turns to the Guards. 

“D’Artagnan is one of us. You requested a duel, gentlemen? Consider your wish granted.”

If I could leap into the air without making a fool of myself, I would. Instead, I let silent jubilation wing its way through me; its light racing to fill the darkness.

“You’re not a musketeer,” repeats the leader, addressing me. 

I raise my eyebrows and give him my biggest smile.

“I’m sorry monsieur, would you come closer and say that again? I don’t think my sword heard you.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aramis’ eyebrows lift straight up in delight at Porthos, who chuckles, but it’s Athos who adjusts the brim of his hat, and completes my boast, saying,

“This will be over quickly; we will be merciful.”

I grin; Athos’ style may be different from mine, but he does bravado with the best of them.

“You will regret this,” spits the leader of the Guards, but looks at Athos and shrugs. “So be it.”

As we line ourselves up, facing each other, Athos moves closer to me. He turns to face me, slightly to my left, his head down. He addresses me quietly, without preamble.

“Listen carefully, but do not react; this is a matter of pride,” he instructs, his voice barely above a whisper. I casually tap the toe of his boot with the tip of my sword to let him know he has my attention. He speaks low, looking carefully away from me, over my shoulder.

“At the beginning, Porthos has a tendency to throw all his weight forward. He is a powerful fighter, but if the duel continues, his opponent will outlast him.”

I press my lips together to hide my surprise: I thought he meant my own pride, which has, of course, reliably pushed its way to the surface. Athos takes a breath, then continues.

“Aramis will let his left guard drop entirely when he is tired, which is earlier than you would expect. He is used to looking at a fight as a one-way target, he does not always see a duel as the many-headed creature it is. ”

Athos lifts his head and meets my eyes.

“Do you understand what I am asking you?”

I do. Although, I’m still slightly shocked at hearing Athos string so many words together at once. 

He trusts me with this information because he thinks I can help Porthos and Aramis, if they need it. He thinks I’m skilled enough to not only fend for myself, but to step up and defend the other two. As if-

As if I am a part of this brotherhood they so clearly share.

Does Athos know how much this confidence means to me? I look at him, and, _mon dieu_ , I think he does, because as the tears threaten, stinging at my eyes, he gives me a solemn nod. 

“I understand.” 

Athos shifts his gaze to our boots.

“I have an injured shoulder,” he bites out, and I can see the effort it costs him to admit any such weakness.

Instead of reassuring him, instead of a cocky reply that I’ll watch out for him, I merely say,

“Your left shoulder.”

He looks back up at me.

“You have already noticed.”

“You have been teaching me to take more notice.”

Surprise flickers across his face, along with something close to approval. I’m about to open my mouth and spoil the moment, because I know he’ll be the one going taking on two guards at once, and I’m more than a little worried.

Like every duel of honour, this will go to first blood drawn, but trust the Red Guards to push it further. They will be out for more than a mere scratch. 

“Ready when you are, Musketeers. Stop stalling and meet the end of our blades.”

Their leader’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and we’re out of time. 

I heft the pommel of my blade in my grip, squeezing comfort from its familiar shape. I can feel the ghost of my father’s guiding fingers on mine, echoing through my past and reaching me. I roll my shoulders.

Usually, I am restless, I am eager, I am constantly seeking, always moving; I know this about myself.

Yet, right now, in this moment, I am calm.

That feeling just before a wave of emotion spurs a decision. The split second before a fight begins. The heartbeat before I face my own limits. 

In these moments, my world narrows to what lies in front of me, and there is an inevitable peace; I can only go forward, and what happens, will happen. 

There is a shift in the air, from expectation to purpose. The guard I am facing looks at my swollen eye, my split lip, and takes the opportunity to glare at me. 

“Looks as if you’ve already been in a duel, tonight.”

I run my tongue over the dried blood on my lip, narrowing my eyes. 

“I have. I won it.”

He rolls his eyes and snickers. 

The fingers of my loose hand flex at my side.

_Oh, we’ll see who’s laughing at the end of this, my friend._

And then the Red Guard leader shouts, 

_“Commencer!”_

I can read the guard’s move even before he even lifts his arm; he’s aiming for my high outside because it’s a brazen, flashy way to begin a fight and I know his type. I bring my own hand forward instead, and give him a clean, shallow nick across his right forearm. He barely has time to look down in astonishment at the ripped cloth of his doublet before I parry his reflexive, weak attack and slice again, sharp and neat, a little deeper, on his vest.

I can best him, and now he knows it.

He narrows his eyes.

“Quit playing.”

He steps to the side with some attempt at shoddy footwork and unsuccessfully tries to catch me, but I block it, causing his sword arm to flail wildly to the right.  
I shrug.

“But I am enjoying the game, monsieur.”

We cross blades again, and now the duel has begun in earnest. He makes up for his lack of speed with strength; he is stronger than me and every block is an effort, I’m clenching my teeth against his attack, muscles shaking as I feel the reverberation. I feel as if all the blood in my body has rushed to my heartbeat; it is pounding, throbbing, alive.

Aramis is on my right, a stylish, deadly blur at the corner of my vision. I see it before he does; his opponent sees the left side open and throws his blade towards the gap. Instead of Aramis’ rib cage, his blade is met with my own. I quickly withdraw, and Aramis redoubles his attack.

I don’t see his reaction; I’ve already turned back to my own fight. Then, on my other side, I sense Porthos’ rhythm slowing, and just in time, I throw my shoulder into him. It’s like hitting a wall, but the wall moves an inch back, just out of range of the guard’s sword tip. 

I whirl back again, to the guard that I’m facing: his strength isn’t waning. 

Unfortunately, mine is. He can win this fight on power, and the thought suddenly terrifies me. This man can kill me. And he wants to. 

We fight on. I am sweat-soaked, exhausted frenzy. My sword is so heavy; it requires almighty effort to bring it up for each strike, each attack, each parry. The split on my lip has broken open and I am swallowing the taste of metal and salt as it mixes with fear. Porthos gives a roar from somewhere behind me, and the sound of it sends goosebumps prickling along my skin, igniting some fierce, primal flame of survival.

I force myself to look into the guard’s eyes, searching for his next move, and I find my answer. He feints, I read it. I slash forward, more quickly than I thought capable, taking even myself by surprise, and my blade glides smoothly into his skin, cutting along his side with sickening ease.

We both gasp, and then he staggers backwards, holding his hands to his shirt. He looks up at me in disbelief, his hands slick and red.

I don’t stop; I turn and look for the others. Aramis is pacing away from a guard who is kneeling on the ground, and Porthos has just withdrawn his own blade from a guard’s upper arm. 

The three of us turn, as one, in Athos’ direction.

They are a trio of shadows in the dim light, and Athos’ lithe frame is moving at double-speed, his torso twisting back and forth and back again, his one weapon slicing between the two of theirs, the clang of metal reaching us through the night. 

Porthos puts his hand on my shoulder. A comfort, and a warning. This isn’t a quick moment where I can sneak in and help with a quick flick of my own blade; this is a matter of honour. We can only watch. I’m still breathing heavily from my own fight, and even though sweat is still burning my eyes, I can barely bring myself to blink. My focus is on his left shoulder; it looks like he’s favouring it slightly-

The first guard goes down, hard, with a slice to the ribs, and Athos whips back to face the other one. 

With a last, decisive thrust, Athos’ blade is buried in the other man’s thigh. The guard roars, managing a few weaving steps, and Athos steps gracefully out of range. Then, the man falls to his knees on the cobblestones, collapsing.

Athos paces in a tight circle, then drops to his knees. I break free of Porthos’ hand and run towards Athos. I’m scanning his frame as I run, trying to read beneath the layer of his proud body language. I stop in front of him, scanning for wounds. 

He lifts his face at my approach, that small smile threatening to break free.

Porthos and Aramis come up behind me, and Athos allows Porthos to wordlessly haul him upright. 

“The guards have headed the other direction,” declares Porthos. I look over my shoulder at the limping, beaten group turning the corner, out of sight, and feel a flare of triumph. 

“You’re not wounded,” says Aramis to Athos, wiping a hand across his brow. There is relief in his tone, of course, but there is a hint of familiarity there, as well, and I wonder how many times Aramis has seen Athos injured. 

How many times have these three men seen each other face death?

Athos shakes his head, eyes glinting.

“As if I would lose a duel with a Red Guard, Aramis. I honestly thought you knew me better.”

Porthos chuckles, and Aramis grins, lifting his own hat and shaking back his dark hair.

“You’re not invincible, Athos. Sometimes I think you believe swords are actually shields.”

“They are when I am the one wielding them,” he fires back, and the small smile has reached his eyes, now. 

“Or if d’Artagnan is wieldin’ them,” says Porthos, looking at me. 

Aramis whistles. “Indeed. You are quicker than lit powder, d’Artagnan. And just as effective.” He strokes his moustache, clever eyes resting on the hilt of my sword. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how many times you appeared at the just the right moment, making up for my own misses.”

“An’ mine,” Porthos agrees. “You made the difference in that duel, Pup.” His chuckle reaches me like wine, warming me.

“I’ve never been so glad to have you around, d’Artagnan,” winks Aramis, and his hand claps my back, once. He leans back, holding me at arm’s length. 

“A Musketeer in all but name,” he says, and I clear my throat furiously. 

I look at Athos, who brings the edge of his blade lightly against mine, giving it a friendly tap. 

I search for something to say. Something that encompasses all that I’m feeling. 

“You’re oddly quiet,” observes Aramis gently.

“I’m thinking of my father,” I blurt out. “I believe - I believe I have made him proud, this evening.”

I meet Athos’ pale eyes. 

“I hope he’s proud of me.”

It comes out sounding desperate, and Athos studies me.

“I cannot answer that.”

I nod, looking hastily at the cobblestones; suddenly, overwhelmingly, tired. 

“But I can say with certainty: _we_ are proud of you.”

I look up again, and Athos raises his eyebrows.

I swallow. 

Athos gives my sword another bracing tap, and he is smiling, really smiling: the aristocratic features softened, eyes reflecting pride.

“You are one of us now, Pup,” he says softly, and Porthos is pulling me in for a giant, rib-squeezing embrace, and Aramis piles on, grinning, and even Athos grips my arm, squeezing hard.

They release me, and I laugh, completely undone by a barricade of emotions. 

Aramis’ gaze rakes across my face.

“Let’s get you something for that eye and lip, otherwise you’ll be useless at practice tomorrow.”

I groan. 

“Practice! _Mordioux._ I can barely stand. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to stagger home.”

Porthos throws his arm around my shoulder. 

“Ah, don’ worry, Pup. We’ll get you there.”

We begin walking back towards the fourth Arrondissement, and the Rue Saint-Germain. 

I don’t know, yet, how much these men will come to mean to me. That I will be closer to Athos than anyone, that Porthos will remain pure of heart while the rest of us submit to various temptations, or that Aramis will become a much more mysterious version of the man he is now. That decades will pass, and our friendship will be tested and pulled in different directions, but always stay rooted in memory, in honour.

What I do know, as I hear Porthos’ chuckling, as I listen to Aramis’ jovial narration of a conquest he recently made, as I exchange an amused glance with Athos, is that in taking part in that duel, I have gained more than just friends. 

I have gained brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the closest I came to weaving Dumas' version with my own: in the books, d'Artagnan famously volunteers to join Athos, Aramis and Porthos in a duel with the Cardinal's guards, and it's the beginning of their legendary friendship. 
> 
> Thank you, so much, to those who read along. This was a personal one, for me. I started it when I started reading through the books, and the Musketeers have come to mean a lot. (under_my_blue_umbrella understands.❤) 
> 
> D'Art is the easiest for me to write, and as much as I wish I had Athos' cool reaction, or Aramis' charisma, or Porthos' grounded warmth, I'm closest in spirit to d'Art. Most of how I approach him is just writing how I'd approach the situation myself. 😂😄
> 
> Thanks for taking the journey with me.


End file.
